


April Showers

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Pre-Slash, Watersports, bladder desperation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-16
Updated: 2012-05-16
Packaged: 2017-11-05 11:41:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/406005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes even Sherlock miscalculates and finds himself away from home, away from a loo when he really shouldn't be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	April Showers

**Author's Note:**

> There will be a sequel to this, WIP at the moment, but I'm getting there.

It was an accident. A genuine miscalculation on his part.

Sherlock never mixed business with pleasure, especially not with his kind of perverse pleasure, but business in the shape of DCI Dimmock had been waiting on his doorstep when he returned to Baker Street. The case sounded simple enough, despite the detective’s pathetic puzzlement, Sherlock was confident that he could solve it in an hour and be back at home before he really needed to be away from prying eyes.

Everything from traffic to blundering police officers and the mystery of a missing key had conspired to make it take much longer than he had anticipated.  It was solved now. The police were downstairs on the ground floor where the body had been found. He was on the second floor of the abandoned factory, in what had once been an open plan office, supposedly looking for a missing piece of evidence.  He paced, stopped and squeezed his thighs tightly together for a few seconds.  His hand pressed into his crotch without him making a conscious decision to hold himself.

Damn.

He had already done the math. Three minutes to get downstairs, five to get away from Dimmock and find John, four minutes to walk to the main road, yet another five to find a taxi, then a thirty-four, thirty-five minute journey home, plus enough time to get out of the cab and upstairs to the loo. It would be approximately fifty minutes before he could safely empty his aching bladder.

He couldn’t wait that long.

Sherlock closed his eyes for a moment and let out a shaky breath. He was simply not going to make it back to Baker Street. If he tried he would end up wetting himself somewhere on route, in board daylight and almost certainly in front of witnesses, and that was not his idea of pleasure. It would be too humiliating to have his most private vice exposed in public.

He didn’t want to give in to his bladder’s incessant demands, but he had no choice.  There was no point in trying to find a loo, everything had been stripped out of the old building prior to scheduled demolition, including the toilets.  He would just have to piss on the floor.  The need inside him spiked in anticipation of long denied relief and suddenly he had to go. Now. Immediately. He couldn’t wait another minute.  His long fingers fumbled with his zipper and he had it halfway down when he heard the footsteps in the corridor. Sherlock groaned. He knew those steps, firm, military, with a tiny unconscious favouring of one leg over the other, the legacy of John’s psychosomatic limp.  There was just time to yank his zip back up before John appeared in the doorway.

“I’ve been looking everywhere for you,” John said. “Are you done here?”

“Just about.” 

“Let’s go then, the Chelsea game is on ITV, I might just catch the second half if we hurry up.”

John started to turn around, to head back down the corridor and for one insane second Sherlock almost followed him, almost took his nearly non-existent chances on reaching home with his dignity intact.

“John, I...I need to piss first.”  It was so difficult to keep still and not hold himself. 

John stopped. He frowned and Sherlock knew that he was thinking of his stupid football match.  “Can’t you hang on until we get back?”

“You-“ _You wouldn’t ask me that if you knew how long I’ve been holding it._ “No, I can’t.”

John grinned. “Then you’ll just have to piss up a wall like us lesser mortals. I’ll see you downstairs.”

“Wait!” He hadn’t meant to say it, hadn’t meant to stop John in his tracks. “There isn’t even a door I can shut and I don’t want Dimmock or any of his cronies to catch me, just stand in the doorway and warn me if anyone comes upstairs.”

John looked puzzled. “Calm down, will you? It’s no big deal, everyone has to pee.”

“I don’t have time to argue about this!”  Sherlock clenched his thighs together. A second later he had crossed his legs despite his determination to hide his desperation. “Please, John.”

“I must be mad the things I do for you.” John stood with his back to the door frame and folded his arms. “Get on with it then.”

Oh god! Sherlock wrenched his trousers open and pulled his cock out just in time. A few seconds more and the piss would have been soaking into his clothes instead of steaming down onto the concrete floor. The noise was shockingly loud in the silent building. If anyone came upstairs now they would hear him pissing well before they reached his hideout.  Sherlock bore down trying to force it all out as quickly as possible and a feeling of utter relief overwhelmed him. He had needed to go for such a long time and John would see that he was not disturbed.  Sherlock turned his head. John stood facing the corridor and the intense stab of disappointment that he felt marred his pleasure, silently he willed him to look round, to look at him, but John remained steadfast. Sherlock closed his eyes. It was almost over and his cock rose, twitching in expectation of another kind of relief.  When the last trickle ebbed away the urge to masturbate was almost as strong as the urge to piss had been, but he pushed his erection back into his trousers and fastened them up.

His legs shook as he walked over to the doorway.

“Better?” John asked.

“Yes, much.”  He still wanted to wank. It would only take a few strokes of his hand, even less if it was John’s hand on him.

John gave him a long, hard stare. “You must have been absolutely bursting.”

“I was,” Sherlock said and then he very determinedly changed the subject.

 


End file.
